stairs creaked and groaned as a whole squad of men came tromping down into the cellar. At least six of them, Chapel thought, though it was hard to tell. He did not poke his head around the side of the crates to find out.
“I’m not cleared to be down here,” someone said.
“Shut up,” came the reply. “He must be here. Right?” Chapel recognized that voice. It was Michael, the guard he’d knocked out and tied up in the billiards room. Apparently he’d been let loose. “He’s here,” Michael said. “I can feel it.”
“If he is, we can just wait him out,” a third voice suggested. This voice sounded hopeful, as if its owner really, really didn’t want to go rummaging around in the basement looking for Chapel.
“Spread out,” Michael said. “I want every corner of this place under constant observation. This guy’s got stealth training—if he slips past us while we’re down here, we’re all toast.”
He heard them shuffling about, then taking up positions. It sounded like they weren’t going anywhere.
Chapel tried very hard to control his breathing. His chest wound made him want to gasp for air. He didn’t think the gunshot had punctured his lung—if it had he would have been coughing up blood—but it had made every muscle in his chest contract in agony and squeeze against his rib cage. There was no way he could take on six men with just a carving knife. As wounded as he was, if even one of them got him with a lucky shot he would be down for the count.
If only he had some realistic way to fight back.
If only . . .
Sometimes God answers prayers, Chapel thought. Even if they aren’t submitted in the correct format.
He was wedged in between two wooden crates, with lettering stenciled on the side of one of them. He’d barely registered the Cyrillic before, and his Russian was a little rusty, but now he recognized the words painted right in front of his face:
AVTOMAT KALASHNIKOVA
The official Russian name for the world’s most popular assault rifle, more commonly known as the AK-47.
17.
D ozens of crates—each one filled with assault rifles. It was more than Chapel could possibly have hoped for. For one thing it was additional proof that Favorov was smuggling guns. He hardly needed this many AK-47s to teach his son how to shoot. But it might also mean that Chapel didn’t have to just surrender and be taken hostage again.
Not, of course, that fate had made things easy on him. He could hardly open one of the crates without making any noise. And guns were never shipped already loaded—there would probably be crates full of bullets in the cellar as well, but getting two crates open, unpacking a rifle, unpacking a clip of ammo, and loading the rifle would take far more time and make a lot more noise than he dared. He had maybe a few seconds before his pursuers would be on him as soon as he made the slightest noise.
So he was just going to have to improvise.
Chapel studied the maze of crates around him, hoping he would get just one more lucky break and find a crate that was already open. No luck with the crates of rifles—each one he could see was nailed tightly shut, and it would take a crowbar to open it. He pulled himself carefully between two more crates, worming his way back toward the cellar wall, but each crate he examined was still factory sealed. He’d achieved nothing more than splinters for his trouble by the time he reached the far end of the maze and the end of the crates.
From that position, though, he could see more of the cellar. Now that it was lit up he could make out more than just shapes. The workbench was covered in tools, like he’d thought, but not woodworking tools or the kind of power tools you’d use to do repairs on the house. The bench was set up for small-scale gunsmithing—for assembling assault rifles and working with bullets, changing out their loads of gunpowder or replacing their casings with special materials. A complete
“I’m not cleared to be down here,” someone said.
“Shut up,” came the reply. “He must be here. Right?” Chapel recognized that voice. It was Michael, the guard he’d knocked out and tied up in the billiards room. Apparently he’d been let loose. “He’s here,” Michael said. “I can feel it.”
“If he is, we can just wait him out,” a third voice suggested. This voice sounded hopeful, as if its owner really, really didn’t want to go rummaging around in the basement looking for Chapel.
“Spread out,” Michael said. “I want every corner of this place under constant observation. This guy’s got stealth training—if he slips past us while we’re down here, we’re all toast.”
He heard them shuffling about, then taking up positions. It sounded like they weren’t going anywhere.
Chapel tried very hard to control his breathing. His chest wound made him want to gasp for air. He didn’t think the gunshot had punctured his lung—if it had he would have been coughing up blood—but it had made every muscle in his chest contract in agony and squeeze against his rib cage. There was no way he could take on six men with just a carving knife. As wounded as he was, if even one of them got him with a lucky shot he would be down for the count.
If only he had some realistic way to fight back.
If only . . .
Sometimes God answers prayers, Chapel thought. Even if they aren’t submitted in the correct format.
He was wedged in between two wooden crates, with lettering stenciled on the side of one of them. He’d barely registered the Cyrillic before, and his Russian was a little rusty, but now he recognized the words painted right in front of his face:
AVTOMAT KALASHNIKOVA
The official Russian name for the world’s most popular assault rifle, more commonly known as the AK-47.
17.
D ozens of crates—each one filled with assault rifles. It was more than Chapel could possibly have hoped for. For one thing it was additional proof that Favorov was smuggling guns. He hardly needed this many AK-47s to teach his son how to shoot. But it might also mean that Chapel didn’t have to just surrender and be taken hostage again.
Not, of course, that fate had made things easy on him. He could hardly open one of the crates without making any noise. And guns were never shipped already loaded—there would probably be crates full of bullets in the cellar as well, but getting two crates open, unpacking a rifle, unpacking a clip of ammo, and loading the rifle would take far more time and make a lot more noise than he dared. He had maybe a few seconds before his pursuers would be on him as soon as he made the slightest noise.
So he was just going to have to improvise.
Chapel studied the maze of crates around him, hoping he would get just one more lucky break and find a crate that was already open. No luck with the crates of rifles—each one he could see was nailed tightly shut, and it would take a crowbar to open it. He pulled himself carefully between two more crates, worming his way back toward the cellar wall, but each crate he examined was still factory sealed. He’d achieved nothing more than splinters for his trouble by the time he reached the far end of the maze and the end of the crates.
From that position, though, he could see more of the cellar. Now that it was lit up he could make out more than just shapes. The workbench was covered in tools, like he’d thought, but not woodworking tools or the kind of power tools you’d use to do repairs on the house. The bench was set up for small-scale gunsmithing—for assembling assault rifles and working with bullets, changing out their loads of gunpowder or replacing their casings with special materials. A complete
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